Page 82 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“Everyone out,” she insists, pointing toward the double doors. Callum and Rhyland need no further command; they leave at once, but Bryar hesitates, walking toward her.

“You will not help Elsa by doing something rash.”

“Please, Bryar,” she says, sucking in a deep breath. “I just need a moment to think.”

Wordlessly, and with an understanding nod, he leaves, closing the doors behind him. Something intuitive takes hold of her and she plunges her hand into the flames of the hearth, unbothered by the searing heat, and retrieves a smoldering length of charcoal. Similar to the runes in the woods outside the monastery, Myla’s hand scrawls symbols onto the stone flooring. Only this time, she recognizes the symbols, for her mother taught them to her.

A curse.

A ruinous promise of death upon her enemies.

I am still here, Spirit Mother. Help me end this. Myla lifts her face to the sky, letting her fingertips grasp at the moon until she sees light travel down her arms, through her body, and into the stones beneath her, setting the runes aglow. They flash momentarily before disappearing from the floor

Her curse is given to the Gods, to do with as they see fit.

Myla watches the stars and temporarily considers visiting Lenore for more of her wonderful advice, when a thought strikes her. Something Lenore said resurfaces in her memories. “If you could channel your child’s magic, do you suppose that might help with your Blood Stealer issue?” Recalling she and Lenore’s conversation, Myla places a palm on her stomach, willing their spirits to unite as one

“Alright, little one,” she whispers. “I need you to be strong. I . . . I need you. I know as your mother, I should not be asking for your help, and I promise I will not make a habit of it. But it turns out you are a powerful little thing, and your people need you.” The request is met with silence. Unlike other times, when her magic is summoned, there is no tingling, no rush of energy. It is still in her womb save the kicking of the child within, no doubt peeved by the prodding and demanding of favors.

Myla groans, willing her pulse to steady before trying again, this time with both hands caressing her stomach, bringing a warmth upward from her womb to her hands. Every molecule of her body seems to vibrate in response, and with the surge of a blue light flashing through her abdomen, Myla nearly believes it has worked. Until she lifts her hands, looking for the blue haze Caius used to show her. When he did it, it was a marvelous, purifying swirl of blue mist, stunting to the Blood Stealer and healing to those infected by them, banishing the blood oath from their veins. Now, her hands fall short, no sign of healing blue, no rescue for her.

Standing, Myla leaves the great hall in a slow trudge, discouragement making her limbs heavy. Two guards that watched her from a distance fall to her left and right, following as she makes her way up the corridor, through the spiral stairs, and to her chamber.

Inside, Bryar sits reclined on one of the cushioned ledges beside the balcony, watching the Ashborn guards patrol back and forth outside the palace. Hearing her latch the door behind, he looks sidelong at her, his own features weary with too many problems and no solutions in sight.

“Are you better?” he asks, willing his voice to sound less discouraged than he feels.

Myla sighs and sits next to him, her breathing labored beneath the weight of the child nestled near her lungs. “No,” she admits. “Lenore told me of channeling a child’s magic from within the womb. Needless to say, it did not work for me.”

His brow furrows and his gaze returns to outside, to the patrolling soldiers. After a moment of silent consideration, he speaks, “What if we tried together? Did not she say it was an Ashborn custom?”

“Yes,” Myla confesses. “But this child is not of you. I am not sure it will help in this case.”

With a halfhearted shrug, Bryar leans forward, moving her hands to her stomach again and placing his atop them. “At least we can say we tried.”

Reluctantly, Myla agrees. “Okay. Let us try.”

Dawn breaks, its warm glow diffused through rising clouds of dust, disturbed by nine legions of soldiers—six of Myla’s and three of the Ashborn’s—marching toward the Seam. It is a surreal feeling to go from two years of surviving what feels like the impossible, to six months of waiting, biding your time and problem solving, to this moment. Myla wonders where along the way she became the kind of woman to lead an army of nearly sixty-thousand soldiers to fight on her behalf, especially when twenty of those lived in peace before her arrival. Looking to her left, where Bryar rides magnificently clad from head to toe in a full outfit of the Queen’s Guard, she is certain much of it has to do with him. Visions of the night before tease her memory, and she is filled with hope. This is what an equal partnership feels like.

The Blood Stealer is a two-day ride for a small group of travelers. A traversing army of this size will take four, a detail which aggravates Myla and Callum equally. Between here and there, the terrain will wilt, slowly crumbling from the majestic and lush mountains, which the Ashborn call home, to an ominous trail of dead trees, slate cliffsides sliding underfoot, and, according to Callum, a pack of possessed wolves guarding a shallow mass grave; a resting place for the victims of Vesperian who have wilted and perished beneath his rule.

Myla pictures herself among them, wondering if they met their end in the same delirium she suffered when the Ashborn took her in. Images far worse than her own decay tell of Elsa’s fate should they fail, and she too be thrown into an unmarked grave, left to decompose next to other such victims. Myla shivers, drawing her Queen’s Blue cloak tight around her shoulders.

When he returned from scouting Falkmere, Rhyland brought back her raven armor. A smithy in Valyndor worked through the night to expand the armor, making room for her stomach. Even in her rounded state, when Myla saw her own reflection, a queen, a warrior, and a mother in one, she knew she would watch Vesperian’s body implode beneath the force of her magic, or she would die trying; she would not return with anything less than victory, for her child’s sake.

“Too long,” Bryar had said with his hands on her stomach. “This child has existed in the form of a question, a worry. Let her arrive in peace and safety. Let us fight to give her that.”

As they ride onward, watching the scenery change slowly, this is Myla’s prayer to the Gods and Goddesses. Her hand fidgets with the raven brooch holding her cloak tight around her neck, wondering what Caius might say if he knew the armor he had commissioned for her would be worn in a battle caused by his death.

Ugly words loom in the back of her mind, pricking her conscious. Blood Stealer or not, after three years of suffering . . . I am glad you are dead. A lump catches in her throat, and she wonders if wishing death on a man who hurt you when no one was looking is a cowardice the Gods will punish on the battlefield.

Not fighting back is as good as being a willing participant. Her mother’s words ring in her head, memories of the one and only time she confided in anyone. The morning after a particularly violent encounter in the name of making the next Restorer, Myla had crawled into her mother’s bed before the sun had risen, her cheeks swollen with tears, hips bruised with vicious and hungry fingertips. She told her mother of the encounter, explaining that she was so scared and startled that her body simply conceded the fight.

Lavinia died shortly after, and Myla continued to concede the fight.

Not this time. Myla tells herself, watching a smoldering landscape come into view, a clear change in territories. She refuses to falter this time. She will soon face a man who wishes to ruin her; this time, she will fight back. This time, she will scream, even if she dies screaming. All will hear it and know she did not lie down and let it happen. For herself, for her child, and for her people, she will be sure no one can say she did not try. Be the talons.

“How do you feel?” Bryar interrupts her thoughts, his gaze trailing the length of her, as though checking for any signs of weakness or resistance. He looks tired, as though he has been on horseback for three days, not three hours.